Verbis Evestigatus
by Twice Upon A Time
Summary: Trapped in the aftermath following the FrancoPrussian War, Christine Daaé is caught in the devastation of the Paris Commune. Broken and nearly dead, Christine finds herself under the protection of a certain masked angel…Ch. 4 Up.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note**: Welcome to _Verbis Evestigatus, _a slightly alternate universe fic of the POTO genre. Although no stranger to original writing, this is my first "phan" fic, as well as my first fanfiction. Having recently seen the2004 POTO movie, I have finally been hit with the Phantom Obessession. A little slow on the uptake, I know, but better late than never. :-)_

_This fic follows the timeline of the Paris Commune, beginning in 1870. To help ensure historical accuracy, for my purposes I am backing up the Phantom/Christine situation one decade from its original setting in 1881._

_The characters and relationships of this fic may be altered from their original parts in either book, musical, or movie. Their personalities, however, will remain in sinc with those of their published counterparts. Speaking of which..._

_...to the disclaimer! _

_**Disclaimer: **Having been denied both my birthday, Christmas, and wonderful-human-being present, I still have not been granted the legal rights to any of the characters within any POTO medium. I suppose I'll just have to stay good and keep asking..._

_...but for now, on to _Verbis Evestigatus

_**P.S.** Please regard this as an introductory chapter. It is considerably shorter than the length I am planning on for the majority of the oncoming updates. _

_...and now, really, truly, on to the story!_

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Safety.

A word defined by the warmth of a mother's embrace, the longevity of a friendship, the arms of a lover. An unchanging assurance of protection against the cruelties of life. It is in safety we hope, placing our faith in fear's ultimate antipode.

And it is because of that fear that we run. Fear that retrogresses us into our frightened childish selves. Fear that seems to make us forget our stability of station and accomplishment. Fear, whose right hand man is Doubt, cripples our maturity and summons the uncertainty within ourselves. Fear that unleashes us to search for a remedy to our most rudimentary need…

To be safe.

The need for shelter during the rain of altercation and adversity. We search for a blazing fire to ward off danger, to warm our cold and trembling selves. We trust in our beads, our chants, our crucifixes. We dutifully perform every step of caution to ensure our security. It is the origin of superstition. It is why we put our trust in material values. It is why we hope. It is why we pray. Anything to escape the darkness. And sometimes it is to the darkness we run…

Never has there been a more aesthetic feeling of repose than to be cloaked in the protective blanket of promise. We yearn to find the allaying release that only comes when we are ensconced in the deepest of sleeps. When conditions arise beyond our foresight or control, we cast hope to the guarantee of a constancy that is transcendent beyond all circumstances. An aegis of faith guarding against the fiery arrows of Fear and Doubt. It is in this safety which we place our faith.

And during our time of need, every one of us holds an ace in the hand life dealt us. Those guardians delegated to be the keepers of our confidence, our trust, our hope. A snug blanket, a loyal pet, a veiling mask…Havens offering their invincible walls of refuge as a place to retreat to…

A place to run to…

A place to hide…

But safety itself is never safe.

Those barriers constructed, those defenses raised, those walls built with the mortar of familiarity, the steel of routine, and the bricks of amenities are so easily destroyed by the thrust of a glance, the turn of chance, the vicissitudes of the unexpected.

Such a hole Risk pierces through the torpor of security. Suspicion drenches the former fires of friendship with the iciness of strained civility and caution. The chains of trust are snapped by the crushing blow of Betrayal. But all these offenders bow in deference to the greatest raider in the sabotage of our havens…love.

The trigger pulled to fire the canons of Risk, Suspicion, and Betrayal, Love demolishes our fortresses of solitude. It rips down our so arduously constructed barriers of security. The flaming arrows of passion can melt the icy walls of our hearts. And when we have been stripped of our defenses, we are at our most vulnerable and no longer safe.

So it is safer to stay away from love.

It is safer to run.

It is safer to hide.

It is safer to stay safe.

For safety, in all its manifestations, is the treasure we are constantly searching for. We seek it in every negative turn of events, in every time of need, in every season of fear. We trust it as the constant stronghold of hope. It is in those things that we consider to be safe that we depend. Safety, above all things, is our light of confidence and courage in times of despair and darkness…

It was a word Christine Daaé had never known.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's Note: **Chapter 2 of _Verbis Evestigatus_! This is another fairly short one. I thought of continuing on with it, but I think I'll wait for Chapter 3. It just seems to flow better._

_Many thanks to those of you who reviewed. As this is my first fanfiction, I've never had anyone review any of my work before. I must say, it's quite a thrilling feeling! I found myself getting ridiculously excited when I had a new review. It's very satisfying to get feedback on your own work. So again, thank you very much. Your reviews are keeping me motivated._

_There were several questions on the title and opening chapter of this phic. The title is Latin, but I'd be a boring author to just spew the meaning now. So if you really want to know, you'll have to look it up. If you're too lazy (like I would be) then wait and see!  And yes, I know the first chapter was…different? Again, that was more of a preview/introduction chapter to the story. Some liked it, some didn't. But I do assure that it does intertwine with the rest of the phic.  And now…_

_On to chapter 2! _

_**P.S. **I have taken some artistic licenses by creating one, no…two new words:-) See if you can find them…_

**Chapter 2**

Childhood is such a very defining time. Apart from the initial graceless collision with the potter's wheel, endurance for the long sculpting process called life begins to place. Throughout each work-in-progress, a series of experiences and people act as tools that help to model those individual lives of clay. It is in the plastic state of childhood where the majority of the molding process occurs. While still flexile and impressionable, imprints are easily made by event and environment. Blows, either constructive or destructive, cast the most impact in the soft substance of childhood, the malleable argil lacking the hardness that develops with the passing of time. A precise combination of disappointments and successes, elations and devastations, together builds the individual pieces of the future work, the antithesis of tedious nicking and scoring balanced with soothing slip and deft hands.

For Christine Daaé, childhood was a bittersweet mixture of the banal mundane gelled with small specks of erratic happiness. Shadowed by the death of an unknown mother, Christine lived the majority of her young life in a state of oblivious loss. It is difficult to cope with the loss of something you have never known, like being denied a promised sweet that you have never tasted. The foreign memory of an unknown experience umbrellaed Christine's early life, making her existence one of indifferent hibernation. Moments of happiness were always dulled with the constant disappointment of what could have been. Life would always be an incessant yearning of something more, always something more. The knowledge of what she would never have was painful, and proved to her that ignorance really was bliss. And so Christine was to continually settle for the disappointment of the adequate.

But rarely is not never, and happiness did occasionally smile on Christine.

Charles Daaé was the one salient accent color in the monochrome painting of Christine's life. The young girl vigorously loved and adored her father, the way one devotes oneself to religious dogma. Deemed one of Sweden's greatest musicians, Charles' mastery of the violin left no doubt in anyone's mind of his musical genius. The accomplished player received tremendous recognition for his skill in addition to praise for his prolificacy of original works. But the vociferous applause of the dukes and duchesses, the opulence of the grand halls, and the mass of acclamations fame had bestowed upon him always seemed to fall short, in Charles' eyes, to the praise that came from the light clapping of two small white hands and one adoring smile.

To the same extent Christine relied on her father, Charles matched her dependence with his own. Since Christine's mother, Anita, had died during childbirth, the focal point of his life had been Christine. She was all he had now, aside from his music, and that he would have gladly traded for the beautiful smile of his daughter. If Christine had been a greedy child, he would have spoiled her with all the possessions a princess could want. He had the money. She would have been adorned in the latest of fashions, equipped with the most amusing toys, and riding the best pedigree of horses. But Christine seemed content just to simply be with him. After every concert or musical performance, Charles could always expect his little daughter waiting for him backstage, flowers melting from her arms.

Some of the happiest times Christine shared with her father were those spent at the house by the sea. For hours Christine would let herself sink into the silky sand and watch as the sun dripped over the horizon, her father taming gentle melodies on the violin. She would let the music sweep over her, drowning her like the waves of the sea, making her forget. During those moments spent with her father, she would forget about her dead mother and the dullness of her life. And for a time Christine was reasonably happy.

But happiness, like the waves of the sea, may appear for a moment and then sweep away with the tide.

Mornings in Laholm are like watching a beautiful accident. The sky and sea collide with such fierceness that it is difficult to discern the ending of one from the beginning of the other. The winds lift up their hopeful song, vagabond whispers wandering the endless waves. From the watery depths rises the sun, a giant golden sea turtle, its back a beacon welcoming the day. Yes, the sunrise in Laholm is beautiful, even when it is stained with blood.

But it was not morning when Christine bulleted through the water, breaking the surface like glass in a mirror. Not quite yet. It was the time when the sky is a black blanket spread over the earth and the sun's rays, fingers creeping under. It was the prologue to dawn, as Christine raced along the seashore with legs that were not fast enough to satisfy the excitement within her. Several strides behind, her father watched as his daughter forayed into the offensive waves and smiled. Christine had not shown this much enthusiasm since…well, ever. Today they were going to see a much-anticipated performance of nature—the Aurora Borealis.

From the time her father had told her of the Northern Lights, Christine had possessed an almost painful desire to see them. They were a rare occurrence this far south in Sweden, he had explained. Although Christine had seen paintings of the phenomena, she had an instinctive knowledge that they were nothing in comparison to the real experience.

_A real experience_, she thought excitedly as she continued her pace. _I'm going to get to see them for real._

Calming her spirited legs, she stopped and glanced back expectantly at her father. When Charles reached his six-year-old daughter, he scooped her up effortlessly in his arms and planted her on his shoulders.

"When will we be able to see them, Papa?" the chocolate curled girl asked.

Charles chuckled. "Have I ever taught you the virtue of patience?"

"Papa…" Christine rolled her eyes and smiled, burying her face in her father's mop of brown curls.

"Will you tell me again the story of the lights?"

"With pleasure, Little Lotte."

Christine had acquired the shortened form of Charlotte as a nickname from the old Swedish folktale her father sang to her before she fell asleep. Sometimes she would long to have the adventures Lotte did; her own life was so uneventful. Christine wished that she too could be visited by the angel of music…

"The lights shine down from heaven," her father explained thoughtfully.

"They're the musical staff that the angels write their beautiful music on. The bright colors are all the notes working together to form one beautiful song."

"Then why can't we hear the music, Papa?"

"Because only the angels may hear the song, little one. We humans are not able enough to listen to the music. It's too beautiful for us, and our mortal ears couldn't withstand it. That is why we were given the gift of the colors, so that we too may experience a piece of heaven."

Christine looked disheartened. She was thankful they were at least able to see the colors…but she ached to hear the song of the angels.

Charles noticed his daughter's disappointment. He took the tiny hands that gripped his shoulders, and held them gently in his own.

"But sometimes, Christine, there are exceptions. Sometimes there are certain people who _can_ hear the angels. And they are very special, indeed." Christine's cerulean blue eyes looked down hopefully.

Charles bent over, and gently let Christine slide off his back. Kneeling beside her, he affectionately took her by the shoulder. Placing a hand under her chin, he lifted her eyes to meet his.

"When I reach heaven, I will send you an angel of music," he promised.

"Just like Little Lotte?"

"Yes, Christine, just like Little Lotte."

For a short while, Christine and her father sat in silent contentment. Christine let her mind wander, her eyes becoming just a little heavier with each passing minute. She had almost fully passed into sleep when heaven cracked open its door.

There are few things in life that take our breaths away. In a world of the industrial and the overexposed, one amusement is overlooked by desire for the next. Our happiness is cheapened by voracity and overindulgence. But sometimes, despite our jaded upbringing, we are filled with that rare feeling of curiosity and awe. Sometimes we become children again. And sometimes we become children for the first time.

Christine choked on her breath as her eyes flooded open. Never in her six short years of life had she witnessed anything like this, not even in the fantastic picture books she read. The Northern lights ribboned above them like an iridescent snake wrinkling through the sky. Christine stood, awe riveting her to the ground.

_It's...just so...beautiful…_

For a long time the coffee haired girl stood still, eyes reverently transfixed on the majestic dance of color above her. Her father stood next to her, also gazing up in silence. The two remained there beside the sea, a father and a daughter, a perfect photo fit for a collection.

Neither noticed as the gang of men closed in on them.

A husky voice shattered the silent tranquility.

"Aye, looky 'ere, Rolf."

Charles and Christine both turned to face the voice's owner. A great oak tree of a man stood before them. Cold malevolence burned from tiny, rat-like eyes. Dressed in dirty fishermen's clothing with frayed edges, the man looked liked he had just been in fight. And judging from his burly stature, he had probably won. The man advanced forward from the rest of the motley bunch, a wooden club in his left hand. He sneered nastily.

"'Ee gots us a coupla trespaisers, dun 'ee?" The whiskey-faced man brandished the club. Charles stood protectively in front of Christine.

Another man of similar stature left the pack to join his companion. He pointed a grungy finger toward Christine.

"Les 'ava look a'dat dere girly, eh? Was a perdy ting like you doin' out 'tat dis time?" Christine cowered behind her father, avoiding the man's gaze.

"Sir, pardon us, we were just about to go." Charles tugged on Christine's quivering hand and started to walk away. The burly man thrust the club into his chest.

"Was da rush, eh? A'wee not good 'nuf company fer a "gentleman" like yaself?" The man hissed through gritted teeth.

"Cet'nly yous be willin' ta lend a coupla a 'umble citizens like a'selves a few coins, ainchee?"

Charles sidestepped the man, watching him carefully, hawk like. Anger exploded into the man's eyes, and he suddenly slammed the club into Charles' shoulder. Christine gave a shriek of horror as her father was thrust to the ground.

"Papa!"

The other men began to crowd around, like wolf pack hungry for fresh meat. They growled and grunted as their clubs came down on Charles' bloody body. Christine stood aside from the attack, frozen in horror. Fear held her pinned to her spot.

_This isn't real. This isn't real! _Christine felt as if she was watching an opera from her seat in the balcony. This couldn't be her father, with the life being beat out of him. It couldn't. She wanted to leave. She didn't like this story. She wanted to tell the men to stop acting and let her father and her go home. She was tired, so very tired.

But this was not a story. This was reality.

Charles screamed at her to run, to get away. Until then, the men had ignored the frightened on-looking girl. Now they focused their attention to Christine's statue form.

"Run Christine! RUN!"

What was that she heard? Her father's voice? Yes, it was his voice. It was telling her to get away. But she didn't want to leave. She wanted to keep looking at the lights with him. They didn't come often. She wanted to see. As the men started advancing toward her, Christine was snapped from her reverie.

"Papa!" But she could not see her father's form; the oncoming men were too big and towered over her like a dark forest.

_I can't see him…Papa, I can't see you…How do I reach you?_

And so she ran. She didn't know what else to do.

She had to get to safety.

Several moments passed.

And then after a short time, morning greeted Laholm. A deathly calm had settled over the town, but was shattered as the roar of daily activities began. Birds welcomed in the day. Children raced to the sea. Mothers and fathers began their tasks.

Charles Daaé was dead.

The sun still rose.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: Chapter 3! Yayness. Another short one. Expect chapter 4 up soon...Anyway, I'm debating over getting a beta for this. ponders Maybe, we'll see. _

_Blah, I hate the formatting on not working for me! Staggering lines is not an easy task...Ah well._

_On with the phic!_

**Chapter 3**

"…such a lovely little girl…"

"…raised her on his own…"

"…mother died…"

"…such a waste…"

"…your father…such a great man…"

"…it's okay…cry…"

"…we know how you feel…"

"…no family…"

"…all alone…"

Christine gasped for air as her eyes burst open. Suppressing the scream that had volcanoed its way up to her mouth, she raised a trembling hand to her cheek. It was cold. And wet. She hated waking up in these conditions, yet she was greeted by them so frequently. Christine sat up in the tangle of damp sheets, running a hand through her hair. She sighed and looked out the window, thinking.

A dream. Another dream. They plagued her sleep like rats. Rats that gnawed away at her subconscious, burrowing a hole that reached all the way to the surface of reality. And they were always so vividly the same. Christine could see the lucid faces swimming their way up and down her stream of consciousness, surfacing and resurfacing. Their voices shifted and overlapped each other, forming one, long, cacophonous melody. Once again Christine tried to bury the memory with its past, knowing full well it would dig itself up again. Despite her attempts, Christine could not contain her own mind's will. She closed her eyes and once more allowed herself to slip into the past.

In all actuality, the funeral had been a nice one. There were lovely flowers and nice songs and pretty words. It had been a sunny day, Christine remembered, a nice warm day in summer. The light of the midday sun set the pictures of painted glass ablaze in the windows of the town church. Christine had sat along the aisle in the wooden pew. Funny, though she could never quite remember the scent of the lovely flowers, the smell of those wooden pews always lingered after her dreams. Dusty and potent and dead, they made her choke and cough.

Christine had been dressed in a simple black dress with her dark hair braided down her back. For the duration of the ceremony, she'd sat with her hands neatly folded in her lap, focusing her attention on the large, intricate cross that hung above the alter. Tracing the elaborate architecture with her eyes, she lost herself in the labyrinth of the twists and loops that decorated the normally simple, four-armed figure. Trying to find her way through the maze of knots kept her attention away from her father's coffin. She would not look at that big rectangular box. It was incongruous, out of place. It didn't go with the rest of the pretty decorations. No, Christine liked looking at the cross instead. It was so much more emphasized in the big high-ceiling room. Christine liked being under the shadow that was formed from the rays of light breaking through the windows. It made her feel safe.

Yes, Christine remembered these specifics of her father's funeral. The smell of dead wood, the inharmonious box, the convoluted cross…

…and then there were the people.

Oh, the people. They were everywhere. Christine had never imagined her father had so many acquaintances. They all remarked to each other about what a pretty little girl she was and how it was all so sad. But Christine knew that after they had paid their pity smiles and comments, they would all go home to their own mothers and fathers and pretty little girls. And Christine would be left alone.

And they knew it too.

Among hushed whispers and quick glances and nervous smiles, all wondered about what to do with the little orphaned girl. Christine had no other family. Both her parents had been only children, and her grandparents were long dead. But luckily for Christine, her father had something almost as good as family. Her father had friends.

Professor Edward Valérius and his wife Adelaide had been close peers and comrades of Charles. Edward and Charles had been fellow students at the Académie Royale de Musique. While Charles had gone on to perform music, Edward had stayed to teach it. Edward met the young singer Adelaide while teaching an advanced chorus course. The couple had been married around the same time of Charles and Anita's wedding.

Christine liked the Valériuses best of all her father's acquaintances. They were hospitable and compassionate, and were not afraid to break the barrier of accustomed civility with long, impulsive embraces. They were the closest thing to grandparents Christine had. Sometimes when her father left on his long trips, she would stay with them at their home in Gothenburg. It was a lovely home nestled beside the ocean, and reminded Christine of her home in Laholm, helping to alleviate the bouts of homesickness she had while Charles was gone.

And now it _was_ her real home.

Christine slipped from the tangled sheets and crossed the length of room to the glass double door that led to the balcony. As she stepped into the sunlight, a wave of ocean air washed over her. She closed her eyes and allowed her body to lean into the railing, her waist-length hair swimming in the morning breeze.

She was eighteen now, soon to be nineteen in three months. After her father's death, the Valériuses had adopted her as their own daughter. The couple never had children of their own. The last twelve years had been endurable enough. Christine really did love Edward and Adelaide, and she had led what would be considered a relatively privileged life. But over the years, though the scars of her father's murder did begin to fade, they never completely disappeared. Christine's skin was thicker, now, tougher and more resilient. She'd built a wall around her emotions, a wall she vowed no one would break again.

There was a knock at the door, coming from the inside. A strawberry blonde girl dressed in maid's clothes entered the balcony. Noticing Christine's still bed-clothed appearance, she bowed her head apologetically.

"Forgive the intrusion, Mademoiselle, but Monsieur de Chagny has asked for you."

Christine looked at the sea for a moment. She shook her lightly, a slight smile creeping to her lips. She turned back toward the expectant maid.

"It is quite alright, Elaine. You may tell Monsieur de Chagny that he is too much an early riser for my likings, but I will try to accommodate him shortly."

Elaine grinned and nodded. She liked seeing her mistress happy. Perhaps because it was such a rare occurrence.

"I will tell him," she said, leaving the room.

Christine walked back into the shade of her bedroom, preparing herself for the day. She ran a brush through her hickory locks, thinking.

Raoul.

Her childhood friend. Her lifelong companion. Her self appointed guardian. Her…lover? Christine sighed. Yes, Raoul had been her one playmate and friend all through her youth. They'd met in Laholm when they were both very small, and had remained close ever since. Raoul had not been able to attend her father's funeral, but had sent a massive quantity of flowers and cards. Throughout their adolescence, Raoul had traveled from his home in Paris to visit. He was the one person who was able to make Christine laugh, and she truly loved his company.

But now Raoul seemed to want something more.

Christine just didn't know if she could give it.

She'd never considered them to be "courting" during their time spent together, but now she understood that was how society saw it. And she feared Raoul was beginning to feel the same way. Or did she fear it?

_Why must Raoul confuse me like this? Why can't we just keep our friendship as it is? He's the closest friend I've ever had…and probably ever will have...I just don't know if I want to taint our relationship with romance…but then again…what would be so bad about having him as a lover? As a husband? But I just don't know if I'm really what he wants..._

Christine looked into the mirror. The reflection of a young woman stared back at her. Girls at this age were already married and popping out babies. She was not a child anymore; she couldn't stay with the Valériuses forever. If Raoul _did_ ever make his intentions known…

No. She was getting ahead of herself. The two hadn't even established a confirmed romantic relationship. She would stop worrying about the future and concentrate on the present.

And presently, there was a young man waiting for her in the living room.

_Ta da! Yesh, yesh...short, I know. They'll get longer, I promise! Once again, I'd love your reviews!_


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: **Another chapter! Finally, I actually forgot about this dear little fic over the school year. But it's summer and I've re-discovered it! More updates to come soon!_

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Raoul de Chagny was "a fine example of a handsome young man." Standing five foot eleven with dark golden locks and swirling ocean blue eyes, he was indeed an attractive youth. Raoul's appearance had charmed girls across the entirety of Europe. That combined with his title and wealthy position as the Vicomte de Chagny had made him one of the most sought after bachelors in most aristocratic circles. Over the years the young Adonis had experienced his share of giggling female admirers, yet only one had kept him coming back…

Raoul watched as the slim figure of Christine Daaé descended the wooden staircase. Dark cinnamon curls melted around delicate cheekbones, framing frosty blue eyes and shell pink lips. The chocolate river of hair flowed down around her hips, serving as a backdrop to her petite feminine frame. Waves of blue and white fabrics cascaded neatly from her waist and pooled around her ankles. The smile that Raoul reserved only for special occasions never failed to reveal itself at Christine's appearance. That coffee-ringlet haired girl had certainly grown up into a lovely young woman.

_No, not lovely…beautiful._

Raoul had loved Christine since he was eight. Two years her senior, he had met the young girl on the beaches of her childhood home. The de Chagnys had been vacationing for the summer, when Raoul had stumbled across his future playmate and friend. During that time, the two had been inseparable. Christine had possessed a free spirit Raoul admired, and Raoul had provided a source of companionship Christine desperately needed. There had been an instant seed of mutual liking that, over the years, had grown into a strong tree of friendship. Raoul had considered Christine to be his best and closest friend. He admired her; he trusted her; he loved her.

But up until now, his love for had been out of friendship. It was warm and affectionate, not passionate and obsessive. It was unashamed of long embraces and long talks into the night. It was a feeling and connection that was unaware of gender or social conceptions. It never faltered; there was never worry about unspoken feelings. Steady. Comfortable. It was like the love for a family member, but not quite. She was like his sister, but also his peer. He had never noticed her femininity as he did other girls. She was Christine, just Christine. For the last twelve years, he had been blind to romance. She was his truest companion. Someone he could laugh with. Someone he could talk to. Someone who would listen and understand. And that had been enough.

But now as the lovely young woman approached him, Raoul could no longer deny the tingle that had been slowly spidering through his body. Lately, he had been in a constant battle to suppress these new feelings. Now instead of content and comfortable, Christine's presence made him anxious and left him wanting after she was gone. But wanting what? Raoul didn't know yet. This confusion and indecisiveness frustrated him. Part of him wanted something more with Christine, something that every man desired. He wanted to love Christine as more than a friend, and he wanted her to love him back. But that was taking a risk. What if she didn't feel the same way? Would he endanger their friendship for these selfish feelings? No. He valued her companionship more than anything. He feared losing the comfortableness and trust that surrounded. No, Raoul would keep his feelings in control, and continue to maintain their steady friendship; he would continue to stay on the safe side.

_Of course, if she ever made any sign or attempt…_

Raoul shook his head, disgusted with himself. He would not be in constant wait for Christine. He wouldn't put that pressure on her or himself. Instead, he would banish any thoughts of romance from his mind. One could control one's feelings, couldn't one?

A delicate laughter broke him from his reverie. Raoul looked up from his place on the sofa. Christine had suddenly materialized beside him. He jumped up from the seat to face her. How long had she been standing there?

"My, but you're off in the clouds today," Christine spoke in a lightly humorous tone.

He smiled apologetically. "Just noticing those lovely new curtains Madeline has arranged. Elizabethan?"

"Venetian. Of course I picked them out."  
"You always did have exquisite taste."

The two stood silent for a moment, slight smiles creeping to their faces, their eyes. Christine laid a hand on Raoul's shoulder, leaning in to place a friendly kiss on his cheek. She smiled warmly.

"Oh, it's so good to see you again, Raoul," Christine said in an almost exasperated sigh, nearly knocking him over with strong hug.

Raoul held Christine closely, her platonic kiss still burning on his cheek. Fire erupted from his stomach. The feelings he had successfully buried not but a moment ago had resurfaced again with a vengeance. What was wrong with him? What were all these emotions? He closed his eyes, laying his head atop of Christine's.

"I've missed you too…" he murmured into her curls, a little softer than he had intended.

Raoul felt himself exhale in disappointment when Christine broke away from their embrace to look up at him. She took his hand gently and led him across the room.

"Come now, my dearest friend. We've much to discuss. You've been in France for so long; I want to know everything. You must tell me all about your business adventures with Philip," she said excitedly. She was leading him out toward the garden—the secret place they spent most of their time together in.

And like always, all Raoul could do was follow, and hope his feelings wouldn't get in the way of their lovely afternoon.

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_Reviews appreciated! Por favor? I need motivation to start writing again..._


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